


yearn /yərn/: (verb)

by ashilrak



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 10:32:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19810468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashilrak/pseuds/ashilrak
Summary: to have an intense feeling of longing for something, typically something that one has lost or been separated from--Crowley knew what it was to yearn.He yearned for those he had called friend before the trees sprung forth. He yearned for the feeling of lightness and warmth. The sun shone differently upon angels, those who deserved it.Crowley hadn’t deserved it in a very long time.





	yearn /yərn/: (verb)

Crowley knew what it was to yearn.

He yearned for those he had called friend before the trees sprung forth. He yearned for the feeling of lightness and warmth - sure, he could stand outside under the sun just as much as anyone could, but it wasn’t the same. The sun shone differently upon angels, those who deserved it. 

Crowley hadn’t deserved it in a very long time.

He even yearned for the beginning, right after he first fell. The falling was not something he cared to dwell upon.

Not something he dared to dwell upon. Anytime he felt it creeping, when he sat too idly or one of the rare times he found himself dreaming, he did whatever it took to beat it back. He refused to remember it. He didn’t quite know what happened, not really. All Crowley knew was that as soon as the bottom of his feet fell air he’d feel something jump in his chest, feel his throat tighten. He’d be desperate for a breath, his body or whatever reason ignoring that he didn’t need to breathe. It was panic in its truest and most vile form. 

He supposed it was all part of the plan, ineffable or not.

But right after the fall? When it was Lucifer looking over the demons, Crowley included, surrounded by fire and brimstone? When the world was fresh and his eyes still bright, before the regret and longing for before set in? Crowley would give up a lot to go back to that moment. To feel that sort of hope again.

He had thought, before his actions truly set in, that he had made the right choice. That the people he was surrounded by were making the right decision, that the war had been worth it. He’d been on the right side.

He had needed to be on the right side. 

It had all come tumbling down when he had realized that he hadn’t been.

It was only recently, weeks ago, that he had realized that he hadn’t been on the wrong side either.

There wasn’t a right side. It was all wrong.

Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.

Just like him. Just like he had always been.

Perhaps he’d always been following the plan, despite how much he despised the very thought of it. Maybe this was exactly where Crowley needed to be, alone and in pain and yearning for something that once was and something else he could never have.

Demons weren’t meant to be happy. Not pure happiness. A twisted sense of satisfaction? Sure. The feeling of accomplishment accompanying a job well done? Why not? But happiness? The feeling of warmth filling your entire being, expanding throughout your body and soul? No. That wasn’t for him. 

Not anymore.

Crowley clenched his fist, the branch he was holding shattering into tiny pieces. The shards flew out from him. He heard more than one creature make a sound. Shock, fear, pain. Crowley didn’t care.

This wasn’t a job well done. He wasn’t a job well done. He wasn’t allowed to gain any satisfaction from this.

Who wasn’t allowing him? Crowley didn’t know.

He wasn’t to blame Her. She who always seemed to be playing a game with them, a twitch of her nonexistent finger had him spiraling spiraling out of control. He hadn’t felt like he was standing on two feet in centuries. Millenia.

Perhaps he never would.

Crowley lowered his hand and sunk to the ground.

He could feel the mud sinking through the denim of his jeans. Always so bloody rainy, England. Constant mud. 

It never rained in Heaven.

Didn’t rain much in Hell either.

Crowley tilted his head up toward the sky and let the water stream down his face. 

Rain was for the humans. The tiny little humans who were so insistent on not needing any help but were desperate for it, unknowing what the feeling was and not knowing why they were feeling it. It was funny, really. 

Aziraphale helped them. That’s what Aziraphale was there for, to help them. Help them from themselves, really. Help them from sin. Encourage them to be just and follow God’s plan for them. 

Aziraphale’s job was to defend humanity from him.

Ickle Crowley. The demon without a title. 

He’d never been anything. Just a snake.

No one liked snakes. 

He didn’t even like snakes. Didn’t know why he cared so much about what he liked and didn’t like. He didn’t matter. His thought’s didn’t matter, nor his opinions. He was a snake because She had made him a snake. Hell had sent him to Eden because he was a snake.

He had met Aziraphale because he was a snake.

A snake was all he ever was, all he could be. 

A snake had given the humans sin. Free will too. But Heaven liked to pretend they were the same thing. Perhaps they were.

Crowley had asked once.

Once, and never again. 

He should have learned better than to ask questions. But he hadn’t. That’s why he was there. Sitting in the mud, surrounded by a shattered tree branch, head tilted up toward the sky as he became soaked to the bone.

He felt an ache deep in his bones. Rain did that. Snake blood. Cold-blooded. Not an ounce of warmth in his body. 

This body didn’t follow human rules though, not really. Or else he would have discorporated by now. 

Ah, to discorporate. It was sort of freeing, in a way. As much as it was unnerving. He wasn’t bound by physical limits. Didn’t have to deal with flesh bruising when he poked it. Didn’t have to curse when he stubbed his toes. Didn’t have toes to stub.

But the paperwork. Ah, the paperwork ruined everything. The appeal of it always vanished when Crowley thought of the paperwork.  
He felt himself sink into the ground. The ground had always been so welcoming. Dirt and mud and earth, created just for the humans. Humans who were ruining it, not appreciating of the gift She had given them.

They never were. 

He hadn’t been. Hadn’t been appreciative of his divinity. Had thrown it out without a thought. Had thought having answers was worth the risk. He hadn’t actually listened when his brothers told him it was a bad idea. Hadn’t seen that side of Her. 

Crowley fell backwards, praying - could he pray? - for the mud to accept him. He could make a home here. Let a tree grow on top of him, feed it. Perhaps the tree would be cursed, giving all who ate from it the gift of free will.

They were supposed to have that already. Sometimes, Crowley wasn’t so sure.

So much influencing and pushing they did, angels and demons. 

He could feel the mud caking into his hair against the skull. There was an instinctive twitch in his finger, itching to creep toward his hair and banish the offending filth. Crowley squashed it. 

Oh how he wished someone would squash him.

Maybe Hell would finally do something about it.

Wait. No. They wouldn’t. To him he was still the perfect little demon, sin trailing behind wherever he went. He’d gotten rather good at his job, had started to find some joy in it, surprisingly. He guessed thousands of years forced that to happen. 

They never understood why he was good at his job though. Didn’t appreciate subtleties.

He wished they did.

Crowley also wished for other things. The things he yearned for.

Yearning. Such an odd word. 

Rhymed with earning. To earn something was to work for it. To be deserving of what you received. He didn’t see what that had to do with yearning.

He deserved to yearn, he supposed. So it did make sense. Too much sense.

But for what did he yearn? Everything and nothing. Things he didn’t dare put name to.

He put name to them, near daily. Even more frequently in recent months. He didn’t deserve to. Didn’t deserve the let the syllables cross his lips. He tainted them every time he spoke. Every time he said the name he felt lighter, better. The closest he’d ever gotten to feeling divinity since he lost his.

He wasn’t meant to feel it. Wasn’t meant to yearn for something that wasn’t his. Never could. 

Something. Someone.

Were angels a thing or a one? Demons even? Crowley didn’t right know.

Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale Aziraphale Aziraphale.

Crowley found himself saying his angel’s name in the dark, tasting it on his tongue. He whisper was harsh in the damp air.

“Aziraphale,” he muttered, as quiet as he could. “Aziraphale,” he said again, growing louder. “Aziraphale,” he screamed.

His throat was hoarse, so much meaning poured into the word. Name. Creation.

Whatever.

Aziraphale wasn’t his. Never had been; never could be. Even if it was possible, likely even, Crowley didn’t thing he’d ever be able to let himself. Didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve the ground he currently was lying on.

He didn’t deserve his own name.

Crowley squeezed the dirt in his hand, hoping in his heart of hearts that if he squeezed tight enough it’d get the message. It’d accept him, take him far below. Never to be seen again. 

He wouldn’t have to feel anymore. No longer feel this longing.

It’d been six thousand years, and his little demon heart could only take so much.

Tiny. Blackened. Shrunken.

He knew it wasn’t, but at times Crowley wished, more than anything, that it was. He could have been a good little demon then, bowing to Hell’s whims and desires as they wished. If he couldn’t feel he couldn’t feel sad, couldn’t ache. Couldn’t yearn for what he had once had before.

Crowley was too lost in his own thoughts to pay much attention to what was going on around him. Didn’t notice that the rain stopped. Didn’t notice that his shoes had soaked right through. Didn’t notice the sun streaming on his face. 

It’d been hours. He hadn’t known. Hadn’t cared to.

What he did notice was the nudge against his shoulder and the oh so painfully familiar voice in his ear.

“Crowley?” the voice asked, dripping with concern and ever so soft. Too soft. Too soft for it to be real.

He groaned and turned his head away from the voice, trying to dig deeper into the mud. It was nice mud. Kind, welcoming. Much more so than Hell, ten times more so than Heaven.

Crowley would suffer Heaven again if he meant he got his angel.

Not his.

He wanted the angel to be his though. All his. His to wrap up, his to hold, his to protect.

His to kiss.

Oh, did Crowley dream about the kissing.

There was another nudge at his shoulder. And another, this time more insistent. 

“Crowley?” The voice asked again, this time louder, closer. 

He could feel warmth against his side, was vaguely aware of the sounds of shuffling. 

The warmth was closer now, hotter. Accompanied by a pressure against his side, creeping down his legs and covering all of him. Protecting him. Crowley melted into it before he knew what was happening.

There was a pleased hum. “There we are, dear boy,” the voice said. The voice couldn’t be here. He didn’t deserve it. “Just relax, love.”

Crowley opened his eyes and was greeted with the sight of dead leaves on the ground. It was light outside, not the sort of place he belonged. He was to be hidden, hugged by shadows so as to never force another bear the memory of him in their mind. No one deserved that.

Something warm and heavy fell over his waist. Crowley stiffened.

“Shhh,” the voice whispered. “It’s alright, Crowley. It’s me. We’re in the woods behind the cottage. It’s early morning. You’re fine, Crowley. You’re fine.”

Crowley swallowed and didn’t say anything.

He felt a soft pressure against the side of his neck.

“You’ll never be alone, my dear,” the voice said, quiet and confident. “As long as I’m here, you’ll always have me, my love.”

Moments passed, the only sound the gentle breeze rustling the leaves.

“I love you.”

Crowley reached down and squeezed the hand resting on his stomach.

Another feeling of soft pressure against his neck, except this time, Crowley recognized it to be the press of Aziraphale’s lips.

He sighed.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and posted this in less than an hour. I wrote this because I was hit with an urge I haven't had in a very long time and I decided to let the words flow. I hope you enjoyed reading!
> 
> Please feel free to reach out to me at my [tumblr](http://ashilrak.tumblr.com/)


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